More unicorns for you, bubbeleh. Now the imaginary beasties all come crawling out of the woodwork. A mere $9.99, sized mediumy largish (B 38”, Empire Waist 37”), this is another unicorn secretary number to make your workday magical. It would be super cute on you. I’d pair it with red boots, braid a strand of pearls into my hair and top it all with a broad headband. But maybe you are thinking fuzzy white boots and matching earmuffs. Yeah, I can see that too.

I saw Bride of the Wind recently. Supposedly a biopic about Alma Mahler, I thought it had everything I need: Vienna, Mahler, Klimt, gorgeous gowns and many opportunities for accessories worn in the hair. While the gowns were splendid, and Jonathan Pryce was doing his earnest best as Mahler, well, let me put it this way, the movie begins with a coupla 30 second scenes with the entirely gratuitous nudity of women, then longer scene with a guy in a starched collar saying: “Mahler is a genius.” And then I knew. This film is total crapola. The rest of the dialogue was like being attacked with a high school textbook. When Alma meets Walter Gropius he tells her he is an architect. When they get into an argument he tells her that form must follow function. Ouch. Please, I thought, make it stop. Then someone shouts: “The Archduke has been assassinated in Sarajevo by terrorists!” If you must watch this film, please do so with the sound off, except during Mahler’s 5th symphony. Alma wears a lovely lavender velvet suit and pairs it with red beads (most likely Czech glass, they have real sparkle). Alma’s mother wears some marvelous things in her hair. But if you are looking to find the woman who inspired many great works of art though her own was sidelined by the sexism of family life, you will not find it here.

See The Seven Percent Solution instead. It’s got a coked up Sherlock Holmes who goes to therapy, a smacked out Vanessa Redgrave trailing lilies. It’s got sleazy Austrian noblemen who use their mistresses as collateral on high stakes wagers. It’s got Alan Arkin as a tennis-playing Sigmund Freud. It’s got a high speed chase by train where the train itself is broken apart piece by piece to feed the furnace and keep it going. It’s got a plot twist that involves identifying the national origin of rug fibers. But most of all, it’s got Regine singing my favorite Steven Sondheim song, “I Never Do Anything Twice”, written especially for the movie. The film cuts a few of the saucier verses, but Regine sings it charmingly and looks gloriously fin de siècle as the brothel madam.

Regine is a famous nightclub owner and personality. Her story is a romantic one of a poor Jewish girl who went from working at the Whiskey-A-Gogo to opening her own club. Regine had the idea to install two turntables so the music would be continuous. This is during the 50s, kittens, making her the first club dj. She sang a coupla hit songs herself and became La Reine de la Nuit promoting glittering events. Regine has many film credits. But this one is too perfect. Enviably perfect. It’s what you’d want to be remembered for.

Had I such a film credit, goslings, I would rest on my laurels. I would not sully it by appearing in anything inferior. I, alas, can be seen for a fraction of a second in a ballet-themed flick that can’t decide if it’s mean-spirited exploitation or an Afterschool Special. Not really enough to retire on.